Majesty
by Chaos Apple
Summary: This is Ferelden, and she will not see it fall.
1. Chapter 1

It occurs to her only as the blade is sweeping through the air that she has always believed her father is invincible. Ever since she was a young and lonely child, Loghain has appeared to her as larger than life, and quite possibly outside her realm of understanding.

With his proud armor and impenetrable heart, Loghain was more than merely human. He was always Anora's most valued source of stability, and even now, grown and wed and weary, she cannot separate her father's identity from his lofty title. He has always been the valiant hero, the symbol of hope and courage for Ferelden.

And then that cruel blade has done its ugly work, her skin and eyes and lips are spattered with hot blood, and her father-that shining example, that golden man-is undeniably dead.

A voice says _Traitor's death_ and _For the good of Ferelden_ and finally _Alistair will be King_ and Anora cannot object. It is impossible to synthesize those words into her current reality, or to focus on anything beyond the immediate.

The cool fabric of her gown. The wet puddle soaking through her slippers. Her father's lifeblood on her lips. The bitter aftertaste of death.

She is a daughter first in those short moments, but a queen at the last. She takes Alistair's hand and holds her head high. Her treasonous eyes are locked onto that bloody sword, but she does not falter.

She is Mac Tir to the bone.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a war to win.

Anora knows that if their army cannot achieve victory, then every living soul in Ferelden is doomed. The reality of their position, however, is impossible to ignore. Doubts clamor within her mind, insistent and persuasive.

How can they win a war without a king? Without a trusted and experienced general? Without a hero? How can they stave off the darkspawn with only three of the fabled Grey Wardens, one of whom is an (_Orlesian_) old and injured man, and two of whom still have wet paint on their shields?

Anora's finely tapered nails bite into the meat of her palms, the knuckles of her fists white from strain.

This is _Ferelden._ This is the country that overthrew decades of Orlesian occupation, the country that has been watered with the blood of history's greatest men. This is the land her husband died for, the land her father met his end trying to save. This is her home, the home she has sworn to protect.

Anora sets her mouth in a firm and determined line. This is _her_ Ferelden, and she will not see it fall.


	3. Chapter 3

Anora is no stranger to sacrifice. She has learned, with pain and tears and resistance, that it is often necessary to part with one thing in order to gain another.

Her first love for a political marriage. Her husband's fidelity for control of his power. Her father's head for her continued reign.

Anora has come to expect sacrifice and it puzzles her that the violence of the Blight has been sated with so little cost. She briefly weighs the deaths of Cailan and Loghain, the army lost at Ostagar, the peasants crushed under the wave of the darkspawn incursion, but still finds the scales unbalanced.

Ferelden remains, it's Queen and royal bloodline and way of life preserved. The Wardens have survived, with only that bloody Orlesian falling in battle, and Alistair's hands are newly wet with the blood of an archdemon. Even the ragtag group of miscreants the Wardens collected along the way is intact, with only that unsettling witch failing to return from the final battle.

Anora knows better than to celebrate. Ferelden, by all accounts, still has a price to pay, and she must have the wherewithal to meet the demands.

Anora wonders what treasure she will have to part with this time, and only the empty sky and the bloodsoaked ground answer her.


	4. Chapter 4

His palms are damp with nervous sweat, and this enrages her.

The bastard son of King Maric is gaining a kingdom, an adoring public, the title of hero, wealth and recognition and power and respect. He is gaining everything, and she is losing one precious thing after another.

Her husband, her father, her brief and unrealized power, her sanity.

She can taste each hateful word she recites, can feel the poison oaths on her tongue.

Her dress is very fine, of course. And the decorations beautifully done. The oaf beside her is all done up, outfitted in the royal finest, and he is stammering and murmuring and Anora is dying by inches.

Who is this man wearing her dead husband's face? Who is this curious and distasteful imposter?

With gritted teeth, Anora reminds herself that the people of Ferelden - the very people whom she has given her promise to protect, the people who demanded blood and death and her hand in marriage - need to see a united front. Her grip on Alistair's hand tightens, and she smiles when he glances toward her. She cannot remember leading Cailan in this way, of having to give him cues in regards to behavior or appearance, but of course he was born to his station and Alistair was until very recently an unacknowledged bastard.

That does not excuse his stupidity and lack of presence, however. He is so common as to appear completely uninspiring, even wearing the purple of majesty and the crown of Ferelden, even holding the royal scepter and the hand of the Queen. He disgusts her.

Anora is losing each and every thing she has ever valued, and she does not know what to do. What role will she play to this Hero King? Will she be only a dutiful shadow, reduced to a horrible imitation of a monarch? What voice will she have in this new regime?

Alistair squeezes her hand back, and says his vows in his most solemn voice, and cautiously but earnestly smiles at her.

'Ah,' Anora thinks. 'It will be the same game once more.' And all at once she is herself again.


	5. Chapter 5

Anora is at her best under pressure.

Her keen mind and sharp tongue have been honed on the complexities of noble relations and the intrigue of life at court. She is no stranger to rumor and falsehood and subtle, but fierce, manipulation.

Having been promised to Cailan as an infant, Anora was raised in an atmosphere of watchfulness, and is accustomed to being constantly vigilant against threats to her power and position. Occasionally she looks back on her childhood, brimming with closed doors and whispers, and wonders whether the ache she feels in her chest is the absence of love or the heaviness of duty. 'A monarch cannot afford to be attached,' Loghain's voice reiterated during those long and lonely years. 'Loyalties should be kept fluid. Love only yourself and your kingdom.'

Distantly, Anora is grateful that her father did not live to see her married to Maric's bastard. She has certainly fallen far from the glorious days of her early reign, when she was on the arm of the dashing and daring King Cailan and had her influence undisputed.

With a jolt, Anora realizes that she has allowed her mind to wander in the most treacherous company. The great hall overflows with pomp and pageantry. Dignitaries and representatives have poured in from across Thedas, here on behalf of all the world to witness the ascension of a new King.

The smile that had become a permanent fixture on her more youthful face has almost fallen and so she quickly regains it, unwilling to give even an inch despite her inner chaos. She smooths her gown and locks her hands together to still their trembling. Casting a glance around the hall, she evaluates the situation.

The nobles have broken off into their usual groups. The Wardens' friends have congregated toward the rear of the room, laughing and no doubt retelling and reliving various exploits. Across the room, Alistair is standing awkwardly among a group of Ferelden's elite, brow knitted and foot tapping. Although Anora has not known him long, this particular behavior was a give away of nerve in Cailan, and whether it is from an ingrained habit or a sense of self preservation, Anora immediately responds to his behavior by preparing to intervene.

Before she can take a step in his direction, however, her path is blocked. Standing before her, imposing even in lady's attire, is none other than Ferelden's only other Warden. Her green eyes are flashing and her hand is at her hip as if to grasp the hilt of an absent sword. Anora decides it is in her best interest to humor her.

"Warden." She says, smiling her manufactured smile. "May I help you?"

"In fact," the Warden replies, her voice deep with an emotion Anora cannot immediately place, "I believe you can."

"Of course, I'd be more than happy to put aside time in order to hear your request. That time, however, will have to wait. If you'll excuse me-" Anora would not consider being so abrupt but for the fact that over the Warden's shoulder Alistair is opening his mouth to speak, and that activity should not be allowed to happen without her careful supervision. The current political climate in not receptive to uninformed opinions or uneducated kings.

"I'm watching you." The Warden growls, squaring her shoulders and lowering her voice for the sake of their surroundings. "I will not tolerate you mistreating Alistair in any way. He is a brother to me-" and it is here, when the Warden's voice wavers just slightly and her eyes flicker downwards, that Anora knows she is lying- "and I won't allow anyone to hurt him, especially not you. You may be Queen, Anora, but I will not forget your treachery at Howe's estate."

The threat beneath her words puts steel in Anora's spine. She almost cannot help the elegant sneer that threatens to creep onto her features. It is a struggle, but it is imperative that she maintain her aloof exterior. The Warden, it seems, brings out both the best and the worst in her, although the latter is not entirely unexpected. It is probably perfectly normal to feel loathing for the person who single handedly stole from you a kingdom and murdered your father in cold blood before your very eyes.

"It is unwise, if not suicidal, to threaten the Queen of the country you inhabit. Do not think that your own actions will be so quickly forgotten, Warden. And rest assured, whatever you and Alistair shared in the past is no more. He is my husband, and you will keep your distance. Indeed, _I_ will be watching _you._"

The Warden takes a breath to retort but Anora ignores her, brushing past to attend to her husband.


	6. Chapter 6

"The Warden is a dangerous enemy." Anora muses.

Her beauty and her ruthless persistence, as well as the skill she displayes in battle, are enough to make Anora wary. She is a threat that Anora cannot abide but that must be handled with the utmost care. Well loved by the people, Elissa is respected by the majority of the noble houses and is one of the last of the Cousland line. It is very likely that she could become a powerful opponent in the coming days unless Anora can find a way to halt her influence.

A hand on the small of her back startles her out of her reverie. Instinctively Anora tenses, holding her breath against the intrusion. No one has dares such an intimate gesture since Cailan's death so many months ago, and it now feels painfully invasive.

The perpetrator is Alistair, standing beside her and smiling that damned cautious smile. His blue eyes are soft and tired. Annoyed but grateful, uncomfortable but relieved that it is not another prattling noble come to speak to her and ask for yet another favor, Anora smiles back.

"You look worn out." she remarks quietly, and it's true. It is a look that is entirely inappropriate on the face of royalty. At some point she will have to teach her husband that a monarch must never appear vulnerable, whether in the face of war, famine, or certain death.

"It's been a long day, and I've spent most of it fending off the nobility." he confides with a good natured grin. "Thank you for rescuing me, by the way."

"I was only returning the favor, my King." Anora replies.

The reference to the disastrous rescue mission at Howe's estate has Alistair blushing in memory.

"Should we retire for the evening?"

"I'm ready to turn in, yes." Alistair says hurriedly. "But don't leave your own party on my account. I'm sure you have lots of people left to talk to-" his eyes scan the packed hall "-although if you manage to speak to every single person in here, I'll be impressed. There doesn't seem enough time in the day."

He steps back from her, ready to depart until she grabs his hand, panic barely held at bay. Just what sort of idiot has Eamon saddled her with? Does he really think it could be socially acceptable to leave the hall without her by his side? It is not just important but necessary to present a united front. How difficult is that to understand?

"Alistair," she begins, choosing her words carefully and leaning in to him. "It would not reflect well upon us if you were to leave your own wedding reception without your bride."

His brows have knitted together and his face, usually so open and honest, is unreadable. Anora will have to work on learning his expressions and gestures.

"My...bride. My bride. Yes. Well..." he pauses, looking decidedly discomfited.

Anora is about to try a different tactic when he clears his throat and extends his arm.

"Shall we?"

Smiling brilliantly, Anora places her hand on his arm and nods.

"Of course, my King."

* * *

While Alistair was the one to lead her from the great hall, it fell to Anora to announce their departure and to steer her new husband toward the royal chambers. His lack of decorum is truly unbelievable. Has he learned nothing in the month since he has moved into the castle? Has no one advised him?

"Where on earth have you been sleeping these past few weeks?" Anora asks, exasperated. The apartments for honored guests are only a few corridors away from her own rooms, and yet he seems lost.

Rather than answer, Alistair is uncharacteristically silent. Glancing at him, Anora notices that he is blushing a furious red and has set his gaze firmly on the floor.

She supposes she should not be shocked, particularly after her confrontation with the Warden earlier in the evening. But somehow the idea of them together seems preposterous, especially while he was engaged to Anora. Alistair does not seem the type to philander.

Cursing herself silently, Anora clenches her teeth. Of course Alistair would have continued his dalliance with the Warden. It was not as if he had pledged himself to Anora, in spite of the engagement. In fact, they hardly know each other, and what they know of one another is colored by their previous attachments and family grievances. There is no loyalty between them.

The fact of the matter is that Alistair is a young man, previously unknown and then suddenly thrust into the spotlight of the monarchy and gifted with the power that allowed him to do what ever he desired. It was foolish to hold any illusions concerning what he was or was not capable of.

It is beneath her, and perhaps even unfair given the circumstances, but Anora cannot help the icy chill that creeps into her voice when she announces that they have at last reached the royal chambers.

"I'll just, uh, leave you to it then." Alistair murmurs, moving to disengage himself and retreat.

Anora grabs for his hand yet again, holding him in place. Really, there is only so much ignorance she is willing to deal with politely. The future of her Ferelden is resting on the shoulders of this buffoon.

"It's none of my business where you've been spending your nights since you've been at the castle. And perhaps, in the future, you will be able to sneak away again. Now, however, you are going to fulfill your role as my husband and sleep at my side." She had often used this tone of voice with Cailan and knows that it can work miracles even when common sense and reasoning have failed to have any effect.

Alistair, it seems, is not Cailan. He has had no experience with this particular inflection, and rather than move to obey her seasoned advice, remains hesitant.

"Anora, really-"

"Am I so repulsive, Alistair, that you cannot sleep beside me? That you will not share my rooms? We may have a brief and unhappy history, but I am still your Queen. You could have the decency to act as if you do not wish to run away from me at the first chance!"

The fragile edge to her voice is bitterly real, and she hates it. It has been decades since she had been appraised by fresh eyes; it makes her feel far older than she is. She does not need some foolish boy judging her, not now, not when she has been so recently widowed and orphaned, not when she has just weeks ago survived the Blight and won the right to retain her crown. She is still putting the pieces of her life back together again, and she simply does not have it in her to be analyzed by such a biased and unknowing judge.

Alistair's jaw drops and he stares at her, horrified.

"Of-of course not! That's not it, I swear! It's just..." he trails off, looking forlorn.

"Just _what_, Alistair?" she asks angrily. "First you neglect to escort me from my own wedding reception-" here she narrowly avoids berating him for almost leaving her at the mercy of the nobles, which would betray weakness and fear "-and now you refuse to sleep in the same bed! What conclusions am I supposed to draw?"

"Anora, I...I'm so sorry. If you want me to sleep in your rooms-"

"They are not _my_ rooms, Alistair, they are _our_ rooms!" Her voice is rising now and they are still standing in the hallway, where any servant or sneaky busybody might happen by. She tightens her hold on his hand and pulls him through the doorway, shutting the door behind them. Erlina, her lady's maid, is standing at the far end of the suite, setting out Anora's evening tea. With a wave of her hand Anora dismisses her and she excuses herself into an adjoining room. She would no doubt be privy to the rest of the argument but Anora trusts her implicitly. She has always been more of a companion than a servant, and Anora trusts her not to breath a word of their private affairs to anyone.

Turning towards Alistair, mouth open to express her indignation, she is stopped short by the look on his face. That is Cailan's frown on Cailan's face staring back at her. It is an expression that she had once known so well, and held dear because it was so rare to see her husband as anything but joyous. There had almost always been a smile on his face or a chuckle beneath his words.

Her poor happy husband.

Her sudden and overwhelming grief is interrupted by Alistair.

"It's not really the sleeping part that I have a problem with." He is looking anywhere but at her, and Cailan has been banished from her mind.

Anora's blood runs cold and for once she cannot think of anything to say. Is her new husband truly so disgusted by her that he finds it impossible to stomach the thought of touching her? Anora knows hat some men would consider her beautiful, and just hours ago during the marriage ceremony, when Alistair had looked at her so shyly and with such earnest sincerity, she had thought to count him among them. Could she have been so terribly mistaken?

"Oh. I see. Well, I'm terribly sorry to inform you, but an heir _is_ expected from this union. I suppose you'll just have to do your best to tough it out. Try closing your eyes and picturing someone more...comely."

Alistair looks baffled at these words.

"Do you- no, look, you've got it all wrong. It's not that I don't find you...it's just...I've never done this before." he says flatly.

Anora does not know whether to feel angry or exhausted.

"Alistair, please. I know about you and Elissa-"

"No, you obviously don't," he retorts, "Elissa and I, we never...that is to say, we hadn't..."

He is stammering again. Only a virgin would be so pathetically repressed, even in Ferelden. That answers some questions, but begs so many others.

"Alistair," Anora tries, keeping her voice low and calm, "That's fine. It's not some monumental task. But it is a necessary one."

She feels as if she is trying to calm a wild animal. This is a matter of the utmost importance. She absolutely _must_ produce an heir as soon as possible. As the mother of the future ruler of Ferelden the chances of Alistair putting her aside were minute.

"Anora, we don't even know each other!"

"What does that have to do with it? Political marriages between strangers aren't out of the ordinary. I'm not asking you to love me, Alistair, I'm asking you to have sex with me!"

He is staring at her, aghast.

This cannot be happening. The Maker cannot be so cruel.

"Alistair, you must have known that this would be expected of you. You can't be completely ignorant of royal concerns. An heir will ensure the continuation of the Theirin line, and it is my job to provide that heir."

She is careful to use small words and explain the idea as clearly as possible.

"I thought..." His eyes are wide and he looks achingly helpless. "I thought I could delay it, somehow. Until we got to know each other. Until..."

The words he does not say echo in the silence.

His romanticism is sickening.

This fool wants to fall in love with her? For her to feel the same way? Her body is something that she is willing and expected to use in order to benefit herself and her King...but her heart?

She shuts her eyes and puts her head in her hands.

'Breathe,' she tells herself. She takes a few long moments to heed this advice.

Finally composed, she looks up at her husband.

"Alistair, stay with me tonight. It will look inauspicious in the eyes of our subjects if we sleep apart. If you cannot bring yourself to share our bed, there is a couch in my dressing room."

His eyes search hers. Anora feels so empty that there is nothing to hide from his gaze.

"I'd like to sleep beside you. But can we...just...sleep?"

Anora nods. She does not trust her voice or the words it would speak.

She knows that this indulgence is a mistake on her part, but can see no way to avoid it without further damaging the relationship between them.

Alistair looks so grateful it hurts.

* * *

The bed is large enough to accommodate two people comfortably, making it difficult for Alistair to avoid her entirely.

He has his back to her, his form strangely but painfully familiar. The space between them is cold.

Anora does not know how to reach out to him, but knows she must find a way. The future of all of Ferelden depends on it.

The room is quiet, and Anora cannot remember if she has ever felt more alone.


End file.
